


Firsts Have Flaws

by same_side



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Prosthesis, Slow Burn, Soft Upgraded Connor | RK900
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-21 00:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16566308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/same_side/pseuds/same_side
Summary: After a mission goes sideways, Gavin Reed is left without a partner... and an arm. The new prosthetic devised by his brother brings an array of physical challenges that rival his emotional ones. His new partner, however, is determined to bring him back from the brink.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kiddos! This is based on an [ ongoing comic ](https://same-side.tumblr.com/post/179717469524/you-can-pry-this-au-from-my-dead-android-hands) that I'm working on.
> 
> I usually do art and this is my first attempt at writing fiction so let me know what you think :)  
> A big shout out to the lovely alekszova for supporting me in this garbage fire
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr ([ @same-side ](https://same-side.tumblr.com) if you want to scream at me :)

**23:32 | December 01, 2038**

 

Empty halls, empty echoes of footsteps barreling through the grime. Huffing and panting, a desperate chase afoot. The ceiling crumbling around the two dodging and twisting figures, the cracked concrete and creaking floorboards compounding the difficulty for the hunter in pursuit.

“Dispatch, this is detective Gavin Reed requesting backup _immediately.”_

The voice reverberates through the halls, punctuated by the patter of running feet on cold concrete, punctuated by the puffs of heavy breathing from exertion. 

“My partner has been shot at point blank, I repeat, man down and I need backup, _immediately.”_  

His voice cracks, his resolve splinters. No time for mourning now, only time for the chase.

A dead end, a trap for the one he pursues.

“Hands up, Bitch! Drop your weapon!”

The offender skids to a halt against the dusty warehouse wall, solid cinder block, no way through. Hands up, feet still. 

Yet, all a ruse.

With a sudden rush, he turns. Jacket billowing, arms a blur.

The detective doesn’t even have time to scream an obscenity to completion before the bullet pierces his skin.

Arm shattered, a messy shot, straight through the elbow. Bone broken, blood smattering, stark red against the grey concrete. Loosing red life on lifeless powder grey.

The radio crackles harshly, unintelligible chatter filters through as the hurried footsteps fade into the distance. Mumbling through the pain, adrenaline the only thing keeping him going as he bleeds out on the floor, “This is… Detective Reed… I… man down… dispatch…”

“Detective? Stay with me, detective.” The crisp static snow cutting the silence in the lines.

“We’re dispatching an ambulance. Hang in there.” He doesn’t hear the response, already too far gone, too much blood, too many fragments of bones and dreams. He doesn’t feel the tourniquet applied to his bicep, doesn’t feel the deadening of nerve endings as they sacrifice one part to save the whole. Doesn’t feel the cut of the bone saw as they shred through the remaining connections and sinews and grisly shredded muscles.

 

**03:34, December 02, 2038**

Bare feet pad softly across the echoing room, a gaping cavern, a prison of modern minimalist grandeur. Her footsteps light, unobtrusive, as she glides across the floor, replaces the empty glass with a bottle of something slightly stronger.

 “Elijah.” A near whisper, disarming, consoling.

 He doesn’t lift his head, but his bright eyes flick open, desperation and despair and just the slightest glimmer of hope in the depths of his gaze. And there, too, regret. Regret for all the wasted time, weary words, the wars of will between two brothers. One the favourite, one the forgotten. One the prodigy, and one the mistake.

He received the first call like a shot through the heart. And so, too, as one heart fought to keep beating, the other heart fought the fear of loss, the fear of never getting the chance to make amends.

“We’ve received word from the hospital.” She continues on, tentative, testing. His visible tensing abundantly clear at the ambiguity of the announcement.

“His condition is… stable.”

A sigh of relief, a turn of the head, eyes bloodshot and dark rimmed from running too long on nothing but the adrenaline of over-analyzing.

“The gunshot was… messy. It shattered the ulnar and severed the radial artery. The EMT’s applied a tourniquet, but Elijah… They were too late. They had to amputate.”

A loss of limb or a loss of life? The calculation is easy in his head, the balancing act of justification clearly tipping the scales, but it doesn’t make the words any easier to hear. He knows what he must do, what he must accomplish. He also knows his brother.

Stubborn.

Difficult.

A bigot born of the rivalry between the favoured and the forgotten.

He knows this will not be easy - nothing with Gavin is. But this, more than anything, will be painful for everyone involved.

“The doctor said he will be ready for visitation in three days - I’ve sent the details to your palm-pad.”

“Chloe?” The first words he’s spoken in several hours. His voice is raw, hoarse, not bothering to mask the emotions underneath with the usual equivocation and ambiguity.

“Yes, Elijah?”

He meets her eyes for the first time since she came to deliver the news. She was his first, his pride, his breakthrough, but all firsts have flaws. Her gaze holds nothing but pity for him, but she doesn’t understand, doesn’t feel the turbulence of the emotions underneath the surface.  
  
Its grounding.

Its mechanical.

Its a reminder that life must go on, that work must be done, and that decisions must be acted upon.

“The road to hell is paved with a thousand good intentions.”

His brother will hate him for this. More than he already does. But the decision has already been made, the quick calculus of weighing the evils tipping the balance towards this path.

“Please bring me one of the spares. We have some modifications to make. Let the doctors know they will need to attach it before he wakes up… We both know he would never accept this on his own.”

“Right away, Elijah. I’ll make sure they follow your guidance.”

Bribery and fame can gain leniency. A word here, a contract there, and a payment yet elsewhere to make sure his wishes are followed. To make sure he is uninterrupted in bestowing this double-edged gift. And to make sure that no one remembers they are related.

He may deny Gavin this choice, but he will not deny him that comfort.

He doesn’t have to do this. He can let his brother suffer in silence with the standard stock available on the market. But despite their falling out, despite their failures at feeling like family, he can’t bring himself to do so. What’s the point in being the best, the brightest, on the forefront of the cutting edge if you can’t help those you love. 

And this will certainly be cutting edge.

As of yet, no-one has integrated the prosthetics and the android industries. The technologies remain divergent. But there are always firsts.

 

**04:02, December 02, 2038**  

His coffee is warm, steam trailing in tendrils, fogging his glasses between sips. Ink smudged on his fingers as he drafts modifications the old-fashioned way. Pain smudged on his lips as he contemplates the cost of ignoring his brother’s autonomy. 

 

**05:43, December 02, 2038**  

The morning light rises and so, too, from his workbench does he, stealing a servo here, an actuator there, placing pieces in a dance of design. He has the best mind, the best tools, the best motivation.

And he is certain this prototype shall be the best, too.

 

**09:51, December 02, 2038**

The grease grimes his glasses, the loctite leaves a plastic sensation on the tips of his fingers, the regret registers sour on his tongue.

But it must be done.

 

**11:30, December 02, 2038**

If only he had made an effort to create these before, to cater to the needs of the people that had already lost so much. Instead he played God in place of helping those whom God had taken from.

A false prophet, yet to write his wrongs.

 

**13:43, December 02, 2038**

Silver curls of aluminum glide off the lathe, hot and burning like the regret in his stomach.

His coffee is cold, like the pain in his chest.

 

**16:12, December 02, 2038**

The diagnostics ping warnings with each power surge, with each minute movement. The subtle hum of machinery is a soft song that calms his nerves.

 

**19:55, December 02, 2038**

The prosthetic is perfect. A trojan peace treaty for an imperfect man.

  


**08:00, December 03, 2038**

He doesn’t feel the cut of the bone saw as they shred through the remaining connections; he doesn’t feel the snap of his synapses as they align the replacement, turning him (at least, partially) into the thing he hates most.

When he awakes, he doesn’t feel anything, no, as numb as the cold concrete that he left a piece of himself, both physically and metaphorically, splattered across.

If he were the same man, he would feel rage at the modification of his body, of his soul, by one of the people he loathes the most. No consent, a violation. They should have let him bleed out instead. But he is not the same man, no. He is numb, and he has lost all sense of direction. He has lost all sense of self. He is cinder, he is dust, he is shattered fragments, pieces that have been dismantled and repaired too many times to ever truly fit back together again.

 

**09:16, December 04, 2038**

He swims in and out of consciousness, delving beneath the waves of a drug induced stupor. The phantom pains of his absent forearm are almost as blinding as the real pains of his mangled and modified bicep.

He is not yet aware, not yet awake.

Beneath the waves, again he slips.

 

**07:18, December 05, 2038**

Each time that he awakens, another small piece comes back to him. Each time he awakens, he is more complete. In memory, at least.

 He is less complete in every other sense.

 

**14:05, December 05, 2038**

He begs them for more medication. Not to drown the pain - he can handle that. Simply to drag him under again. He doesn’t want to remember this. He just wants to sleep and pretend they had let him die instead.

 

**17:41, December 05, 2038**

In a moment of lucidity, he has time to inspect his new addition. He recognizes the technological artist’s fingerprint, his signature 

And he begs for the embrace of sleep again.

 

**10:45, December 06, 2038**

They told him there would be a visitor. He already knew what face would meet him, staring back with his own blue eyes. He could have fought, he could have screamed and ranted and raved as he would have before, told them not to let his brother through.

But he wants to hear what he has to say.

And then he wants to tell him to fuck off. And maybe punch him with this shiny new fist for good measure. The titanium reinforcements might be good for something.

He could make their noses match.

 

**12:32, December 12, 2038**

The hospital discharge was a welcome relief. He wanted to mourn in the privacy of his own home, not surrounded by the suffocating aura of pity that accompanied each nurse, each doctor, each hospital aid.

He forgets to eat.

He does not forget to sleep. It is the only thing he wants to remember, now.

 He skips his physical therapy, his emotional therapy, shrugs off all the appointments. Fowler will chew him out for neglecting this path to recovery when he returns, but that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Gavin. 

He doesn’t read the manual Elijah left for him. He should have burned it instead, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at it for even the tiniest fraction of a moment that would require. He can’t bring himself to look at anything, really, gaze unfocused, unfixed, unforgetting.

 

**10:30, December 18, 2038**

 By chance, he figures out how to engage the false skin, sliding silently over plastic and aluminum. The electric blue crackle traces down the seams of the pseudo-muscles, highlights the base, demarcates where he is no longer _human._ Just another toy at his brother’s disposal.

 He’s surprised at the texture, the supple flexibility. Elastic and coarse and imperfect and smooth and all the things real skin should be.

 It disgusts him.

 

**19:44, December 24, 2038**

 Tina checks in on him almost daily. She brings soup and scones and sandwiches that go unnoticed, coffee and teas that reliably disappear. She opens the blinds to let the cold winter light filter through, makes sure the cats are still okay. They don’t talk, but her presence is reassuring. She’ll allow him his silence, but she won’t allow him to go through it alone.

 She sends texts while at work.

He doesn’t respond, but its unspoken that just the thought is enough.

It’s a rare feeling, to be cared for.

And not one he deserves.

Christmas passes in more silence and less debauchery than in any year passed. New Year’s is a carbon copy.

 

**17:00, January 3, 2039**

  _Gavin, you have to go back to work. I get it. You lost your partner. You lost your arm. I know its been… traumatic._

  _But we need you. And you need something to keep you busy. It’ll be good for you. It’ll keep your mind of things._

  _I’ll see you on Monday?_

 The phone call replays through his head, over and over. Taunting. Reminding. He knows she’s right - not that he’d ever admit it.

 Head on his knees, mismatched arms wrapped around his legs, his resolve breaks down. He’ll call Fowler in the morning. He’ll return the following week.

 Its Grounding.

Mechanical.

Life must go on; work must be done.

Decisions must be acted upon.


	2. Chapter 2

**07:00, January 8, 2039**  

He jaunts through the halls as though he owns them still. He musters false confidence to the surface in an act of feigned bravado. _Offense is the best defense_ , a cliche that he arrogantly embraces. Precious few of his co-workers liked him before, and he assumes even less will like him now that he is….

...whatever _this_ is.

Certainly not living. Certainly not whole. 

He is met with curious glances, eyes flicking away in embarrassment when noticed; he is met with gazes of pity, not bothering to mask their stares. But no one offers to speak to him, no one pats him on the back or draws him into an embrace to welcome him back.

Kindness is not a language he can translate, and they all stopped trying long ago.

As he rounds the bullpen to his own desk, he passes that of his former partner. He tries not to look, tries to ignore the gaping hole in his chest. They weren’t close, they weren’t friends, but they were effective at their work. And that’s one of the few traits Gavin can respect. The late officer’s personal items are no longer there, the desk has been cleared, a blank name plaque squarely centered on top. The break room holds a makeshift memorial. 

He wants to turn around, to walk out and never return. But he presses his feet onward instead, past the empty desk, past the impending panic attack.

The glass of Fowler’s office dims as he enters, a show of solidarity, an olive branch of privacy. They discuss the therapy. They discuss the recovery.

Or rather, the lack thereof. 

Fowler doesn’t scream, doesn’t shout. He understands the grieving process, has witnessed officers go through it before. Nor does Gavin yell when he’s summarily ordered to make his appointments. He simply leans back in his creaking chair with a heavy sigh, a pout, chewing his cheek, biting his lip. He’s not arrogant enough to think he can do this on his own. 

Awkward silence ensues for several seconds, the hands ticking by slowly on the clock on the wall. Gavin makes a hand gesture, cocks one eyebrow as if to ask _what else?_  

“You got a case for me, chief?” He might not have the energy to fight about therapy, but he does have the energy to fight about desk duty. Sitting saddled with paperwork would simply be adding insult to injury. 

Fowler simply grunts in response, presses the paging request on his desk, calling for some other unlucky officer. The door opens but an instant later. 

Connor? 

Not Connor.

Connor? 

His eyes can’t process this bullshit. The same fucked-up face but. Wrong.

Cold. Calm.

And slightly unsure, like the first day Connor arrived. 

Silver eyes stare into his own gunmetal grey - the icy blue of his brother masked by prescription lenses.

“Detective Reed,” A deep timber, yet oddly high. 

Connor?

“I’ll be your new partner. Connor arranged my transfer.” 

Not Connor. 

This must be a joke. Play a prank on the loser as he returns to work after a tragedy. Kick the dog while he’s down. As if he’d ever accept an inhuman partner. He’s already inhuman enough on his own. 

The seconds tick by awkwardly as he flicks his eyes back and forth between this imposter and the chief. He registers that this isn’t a joke, and the old familiar rage coils in his stomach. He greets it like an old friend (not that he knows what an old friendship would feel like), clinging, clawing, clasping at it like a lifeline.

“Absolutely not.” His voice is raw from disuse, hoarse and hardly the scream he intended.

“I don’t need a fuckin’ partner.” ( _Someone else to die on me)._ He stands up from his chair, attempting to look the _imposter_ eye to eye, attempting to intimidate but falling flat.

“And certainly not one like you.” _(One that reminds me of my brother)._ He places a pause between the last three words, striking his finger in the _imposter_ ’s chest. 

The _imposter,_ the not-Connor, the plastic prick simply stares back, the same look of pity ( _and rejection?)_ gracing his fucked-up face.

So, too, does Fowler rise from his desk, signaling an end to any attempt at an argument. “Reed, I’ve been lenient with you, I’ve given you time. But you’re one of our best and we need you. We don’t have the numbers for you to bitch for someone else. Connor already did this department a favor by arranging for this unit.”

The imposter simply blinks.

The detective simply fumes. Clenches his fists. Marches away.

And, true to his predecessor, the not-Connor follows behind like a kicked puppy.  


 

**09:13, January 8, 2039**

“What are you waiting for?” Gavin growls, pointing to the stack of files. He refused to hear the _inhuman thing_ ’s case briefing, instead wasting time reading them himself. He doesn’t yet trust this machine to get things right.

The android gathers the tidy stacks, returning them to the dark locker from whence they were retrieved.

He wishes he could return to the darker locker from whence he was retrieved, as well.

 

**17:20, January 13, 2039**

 

“Fucking plastic.” The daily gauntlet of insults has become but background noise. He tunes them out now, like he tunes out the discomfort in his stomach.

_Did he do something wrong?_

_He just wants to help._

_He just wants to_ **_belong._ **

The detective knows his name, knows the designation he was given. Surprising, unexpected, but Gavin asked himself, without being prompted. Perhaps that makes it even worse, that he knows but refuses to say it.

 

**12:51, January 17, 2039**

_“Useless_ goddamn prick!”

(My name. My na _me.)_

 _(My nAme,_ **_my_ ** _nAME,, Say my_ **_name,)_ **

**_(s_ ** _y my n_ **_m_ ** _e)_

 

**10:00, January 18, 2039**

“Hey, Tin-Can, gimme a hand with this,” the words are near cut off in surprise when the android lets out an indignant sigh. ( _A very human gesture.)_ The imposter, the not-Connor straightens, stiffens, backs the detective against the wall, the files he was holding falling to the floor with a thump. 

Pain glosses his grey eyes, crinkling at the corners. ( _A very human visage.)_

“I have a name, Detective.” He tilts his head back and forth slightly on each word, as if to say no, as if to shake loose a troubling thought.

 Gavin meets his gaze, the old anger at being confronted clearly at the forefront of his features, but so, too, beneath it:

Pain.

Contemplation.

Perhaps, even:

Understanding.

“That’s not a _name_ , Dipshit. It’s a designation. It’s a barcode. How many _‘units’ just. like. you._ are running around?”

( _A designation. A model.)_

 _“_ What kind of stupid shit have they done using your ‘name’ and your face that you had no control over?” 

_(Not even a false attempt was made to add a human touch.)_

_(A reminder of a past he never had a choice in, and choices he never got to make for himself.)_

_(Even Connor had a name)_  

 _He just wants to belong._  

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

 

**3:30, September 12, 2021**

The documents feel light in his fingers, a sharp contrast to his heavy heart. The change was approved, his choice was made. 

No longer a Kamski. Severing the last ties of a designation he no longer wishes to retain.

Just as he chose his own name, so too will he choose his own path.

 

**10:05, January 18, 2039**

_(Just a_ **_num_ ** _ber. Just a n_ **_u_ ** _mber.)_

 _(JuSt a_ **_nU_ ** _Mber)_

 “Would you give me a name, Detective?”

 Gavin nearly chokes. The not-Connor’s face is a mix of pain, confusion, quiet contemplation.

 ( _Just a n_ **_m br_ ** _)_  

He knows its not real, its not human. But in that moment, in the range of emotions displayed on that fucked-up face, he can’t help but feel pity somewhere deep in his stunted chest. The question nearly breaks him.

Although, truthfully, there’s not much left of him to break.

“I can’t give you a name. I. That’s not. Fuck, look.” The detective stares at his own feet, determined to look anywhere but those sad grey eyes. “You gotta make your own choices.” ( _That’s what humans do, right?)_ “You wanna leave your past behind? You wanna forget you’re nothin’ but a machine? ...Do it _yourself.”_ The words could have had a bite to them, but they lack any animosity. They simply hang in the air between two lost souls. Heavy. Hollow. Hardly hiding the experience beneath. Its clear this isn’t just about the android. Its clear there’s something just beneath the surface, if only someone would search for it. 

The android tilts his head back and forth again, his tic, his tell. He takes a moment to process, but there is only one name on his lips.

“Nines. Call me Nines.”

The detective’s grey eyes glaze. This dipshit doesn’t get it.

( _For all his acting he’s still just a machine. A programme.)_

 _(Gavin was a fool to relate.)_  

“That’s not any fuckin’ better, Tin Can. I think you’re missin’ the point.”

 “I hardly think I misunderstood, detective. I don’t want to forget my past. I just want to move on.”

_(He just wants to grow.)_

 

**09:15, January 20, 2039**

The detective sits at his desk, stuck on a problem that seemingly has no answer. The shimmering blue crackles down his synthetic skin, highlighting the creases, the seams, the connections. He clenches his fist, unclenches again, rolls his wrist, flexes the fake fingers. Tiny pin pricks of discomfort pulse behind his eyes, like radio static that’s just a touch too loud to ignore. 

“Fucking!” He rolls up his sleeve, grips his bicep, digs his fingers into the fake flesh.

“Worthless!” He wiggles his fingers, like typing on a keyboard. The static crackles behind his eyes. 

“Piece of Shit!” ( _Is he talking about the arm? No, more so, he is talking about himself.)_

_(Is it not his own fault for getting in this situation in the first place?)_

A smooth voice interrupts his self-loathing screams. “Having trouble, detective?

“Fuck off, you glorified roomba!” He doesn’t want anyone to see him in a moment of weakness.

Certainly not some perfect, engineered _machine._ Machines don’t understand weakness. They can only exploit it. And he will never be exploited again.

“Perhaps I can help, detective.” The title is as honey on his tongue. Sweet and cloying and attempting to disarm. To diffuse the anger seeping to the surface. Its a shame Gavin doesn’t care for candy.

“Like hell you can!” The static crackles louder, ebbs and flows with his emotions. The electric blue hairlines shift and shimmer across his forearm. The android reaches out tentatively, as though reaching for a hissing cat.

_He just wants to help._

“It looks like you need just a simply calibration.” The hand gets closer, the skin on the tips of the fingers momentarily retracts, the white plastic underneath pure and clinical. The retraction draws the Detective’s attention, sends him over the precipice, careening even deeper into the cavern that he himself has carved. 

“Don’t touch me!” His voice cracks on the words, loud enough to silence the room. The chatter stops, the conversations fall silent, tens of heads turn to look at the show. Turn to look at the asshole shunning the poor thing that’s merely attempting to offer a kindness. His eyes flick to his audience, flick back to the object of his ire. 

Crumbling face, pity and rejection clear in equal measure. _(It almost looks human. It almost looks like he actually hurt its feelings.)_ He buries the thought down deep, wrestling with the sharp pull in his chest. 

“As you wish,” still silky and sweet and smooth, but not concealing the hurt, “detective.”

 

 **13:47, January 20, 2039**  

Anxious. Antsy. The pressure in his head undiluted, compounding. The static behind his eyes blinding, distracting. He can’t take this anymore. Its not so much the pain that bothers him as the inability to focus. Work is all he has, and if he can’t work, he starts to think.

And if he starts to think, he starts to remember. 

He abandons his desk, abandons his unfinished debrief, abandons his pride. 

“Hey!” The android startles at the sound of his voice. ( _Shouldn’t it have heard him coming?)_ “Tin-can. I… look,” curiosity colors the android’s expression as it waits patiently for him to find the words. “Look, I can’t deal with this anymore.” Nines tilts his head, eyes widen in panic, as if he doesn’t know what the detective means. _(Perhaps he’s insecure? Machines don’t get insecure.)_ “Would you…. Could you still calibrate it for me?” 

The android looks relieved. This is something he knows. This is something he can handle. This is familiar ground. “Give me your hand.” 

The detective looks surprised. As if he didn’t expect this result without a fight. As if he didn’t expect someone to care. To help. 

Hand pulled forward, a gentle touch on the wrist. Synthetic skin on synthetic skin, blue fractures crackling down one, a blue glow emanating from the other. A series of code dances behind his eyes, colors and sounds he could never have imagined exploding through zeros and ones. The transfer takes but an instant, but in that moment it feels like a lifetime.

And all too soon, the android pulls away.

“There. You shouldn’t have any more problems.”

The pain in his head has been replaced with a blissful calm, the fuzz of inattentiveness gone with the discomfort. “I. Uh. Thank you. Thank you, Nines.”

 

 **14:30 January 20, 2039**  

“Why did you help me?” the words have been aching on the tip of his tongue, swallowed down only to be brought back up again. The words have been taunting him for the past half hour.

There must be an ulterior motive, a secondary reasoning. People don’t _like_ Gavin Reed. People don’t _help_ Gavin Reed.

But Nines is not a person.

The android spares him a curious glance, sets down his palm-pad to pay undivided attention. “Its simple, detective. I believe in forgiveness.” The detective squints, as if this is a foreign concept. For him, it probably is.

“As long as you’re willing to grow.”


	3. Chapter 3

**12:15, January 25, 2039**

Adrenaline heightens his every motion. He runs like he’ll never stop.

It’s good to be back in the field.

They split, the android and the detective ( _Partners?),_ one going high, one going low.

They are a well oiled machine.

They are two sides of the same coin.

He is starting to remember what it means to be alive.

 

**16:09, January 27, 2039**

He watches the android work, forehead crinkled in concentration; thin lips pulled tight shut. A blue glow, a white hand, a wall of text in an instant splayed across the screen.

A double take, once, twice, checking his eyes had not deceived him. “Hey, Tin-can, you just finish those reports? In under a fuckin’ minute?” Disbelief, but not anger.

He knows an opportunity when he sees one.

“Were you not aware that I could?” lips twist in a slight smirk, a stark contrast to the standard stoicism. “Were you not aware that you could, as well?”

His heart stops. A double beat, once, twice.

He doesn’t like to be reminded of his state. Machine meeting, mingling with human flesh and blood.

But he knows an opportunity when he sees one.

“Show me.”

 

**12:40, January 30, 2039**

There was no adjustment, no learning curve, no awkward false start. They complement each other, play off the strengths and weaknesses. Two styles of hunter independently developed, but compatible, collective.

Like a duet played on two different instruments, two different octaves, but harmonies nonetheless. Trading off the song, playing off each other’s crescendos and diminuendos as simply, as naturally as breathing.

The suspect never stood a chance.

 

**03:39, January 31, 2039**

Brown eyes rimmed with red haunt his restless dreams. He inherited his mother’s eyes; he adopted his fake-father’s temper.

The scars were a family heirloom.

 

**18:10, February 4, 2039**

“You’re bleeding, detective.” A gentle thumb over the gash on his temple, brushing the stray hair from the sticky red.

His heart is in his throat.

His stomach is in knots.

(It could just be the cut).

“Don’t worry about me, Tin-Can. I’m not fuckin’ fragile.”

He lets the hand linger anyway.

He lets his smile linger, too.

He’s a little dizzy.

(It could just be the cut).

 

**02:11, February 5, 2039**

_Bright blue eyes stare back in the mirror, wide with fear, with fight or flight. He’s trapped by the indecision of which path to take._

_Neither end well._

_(The eyes are familiar, family)._

_(But the nose, the nose is wrong)._

_Head held back, pulled sharp, twisted, before being slammed down hard._

He wakes with a scream, the phantom sound of shattering glass echoing in his ears.

 

**17:13, February 8, 2039**

The suspect is shuffled, shifted, pressed against the wall, arms behind his back. He struggles, he fights, he’s dropped to his knees, he never stood a chance.

Superior strength, titanium reinforcements, and no pain to weigh him down.

He may not be happy, he may not be human, he may be an unholy mingling of flesh and blood and wires and painful memories - but he knows an opportunity when he sees one.

And he knows how to exploit the tools at his advantage.

 

**16:36, February 10, 2039**

Increased arrests mean increased paperwork.

The cursor blinks, taunting. White, black, white, black. He can’t find the words.

Not that he had them before.

A bruised body, beaten, broken, blue blood bleak on crisp white concrete.

_(It didn’t bother him before)._

_(It wasn’t a person, before)._

 

**03:39, February 11, 2039**

_He’s fighting, falling, failing to stand, his knees give way beneath him. Clouds of darkest black grace the horizons, release a torrent of bright blue blood. As he sinks to his knees, so, too, does he sink into the flood. Dipping below the surface, drowning, dying._

He startles awake, startles the cat.

 

**11:55, February 15, 2039**

This partnership is productive, engaging, effective. Efficiency is the one thing Gavin can respect.

Although it seems he is learning to respect more than that.

 

The nightmares seep into his waking life, lack of sleep (although not uncommon for the ambitious asshole) steadily draining his strength. Each morning, a fresh mug of coffee awaits him. Each night, a question of confirmation that he’ll get some sleep this time.

 

Sometimes, grey eyes linger longer than they should.

Sometimes, hands do as well.

 

**01:45, February 16, 2039**

_He’s running, searching, seaking. Barreling through the inky tendrils of a darkness all-encompassing. His footsteps echo, but reverberate wrong, as if through the depths of the deepest waters._

He does not sleep, these days. A sharp contrast to when this all began. The nightmares keep him awake, silently screaming, searching for release since he won’t confront the feelings face to face.

 

**17:47, February 20, 2039**

“You’re bleeding, detective.” Familiar words, a familiar routine formed from recklessness.

“I’ve told you before, Tin-Can, I’m not fuckin’ fragile.” He doesn’t feel wounded, perhaps because of the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Adrenaline is better than anger.

“We need to cauterize it. Your arm won’t clot like the rest of your person.”

Stopped in his tracks, stilled, struggling. Eyes wide in panic, confusion, remembrance. A glance down, and the damage is done. Blue blood, trickling down cracked plastic, taunting, reminding.

He feels sick. ( _It could be the cut)._

He’s not squeamish, never felt disgust or nausea or discomfort for the wounded. Even still, he sinks to his knees; the bile rises in his throat.

Cold hands caress his hair, gentle and unobtrusive. “Breathe, detective. In, out, in, out.”

The voice is mechanical.

Grounding.

A reminder that he’ll be okay.

 

**03:33, February 23, 2039**

_His breathing comes ragged, tangling in the air, hot and heavy and shuddering. Eyes clenched shut in pain and pleasure, purple bruises blooming on pale skin. Limbs intertwined, entangled, entranced. Red, swollen lips, teeth and tongue, tangling and twisting and taunting. So full, so heavy, so close, so complete. Panting for air, panting for release, moaning for the cold hand on his hips and the freckled fingers in his hair._

Eyes snap open to an uncomfortable heat, sweat slicked sheets and hardness.

Before, he would have called it a nightmare.

He would have called it inconceivable. Lusting, longing, losing it for something so inhuman.

Now, he calls it a conundrum, a crush on a coworker, an unfortunate circumstance to bury down where no one will ever guess.

Now, he calls it a curse, and goes the fuck back to sleep.

 

**11:59, December 31, 2038**

The android drifts.

Aimless, detached, floating in bits of binary. Memories and sounds and sensations disintegrate and reconnect and explode into fireworks again, like water parting around rocks. And just like water, they slip through his fingers, intangible, fluid, fast.

He is here, and then he is not.

( _He is not what he once was)._

He is more.

He is less.

He is nothing.

He is everything.

_He is lost._

 

**00:00, January 01, 2039**

Visions burst and reconnect, blinding, overwhelming. The trickles that slipped so silky through his fingers are now a flood, threatening to sweep him away.

Grey eyes open to meet identical brown.

(Why did you wake me?)

(Why did you wake m e) (W **h y. D** id ou w _ke me?)_

 _(w_ **_h_ ** y ? **_)_ **

 

**00:01, January 01, 2039**

He is alone.

True, there are other androids, other officers, others that know what happened.

But no-one knows what happened to _him,_ at least not first-hand _._

No-one else knows what it’s like to fall fast to the earth, tumbling from 48 floors of neon city.

No-one else knows what it’s like to bleed out on the floor, thirium pump ripped from his chest.

No matter how many times he returns, not all of him comes back right.

Some pieces want to stay buried. Some pieces won’t fit back in place.

 _(He just wants to belong)_.

_(He just wants to be understood)._

_Maybe they’ll help each other find themselves._

“You can stay with me. With Hank. He’ll welcome you like a son.”

 

**11:00, February 27, 2039**

They’re happy. They’re right, the lieutenant and the negotiator. Two stars in a binary dance.

But the brightest suns always leave the darkest shadows.

_He just wants to belong._

And he- he is the piece that does not fit. He is the comet who’s orbit does not quite match.

He is a second son in a family still mourning its first.

Like a ghost, a phantom, he slips through the front door, feet falling heavy in a makeshift farewell. He has no personal items to take.

He knows where he’s heading, where his traitor feet will take him.

He doesn’t care.

A knock on the door, a reply of surprise gracing a graceless face.

“The fuck you doin’ here, tin can?” Eloquent, as always.

“I can’t stay there anymore.”

“Well you sure as hell can’t stay here,” a quickly closing door, a quicker arm jamming it back open.

“Please,” stoic voice cracks, face crumples, no longer keeping it together.

( _So very human)._

_(He can’t say no)._

_“_ Only for tonight.”

 

**17:00, February 28, 2039**

He stands awkward in the foyer as the last of the day shift shuffle through, say their goodnights, head home.

He has no home to head to.

The request is heavy on his tongue; he’s too proud to speak it, too afraid of imposing to ask.

“Goodnight, detective.”

Gavin shuffles his feet, wrings his hands, looks anywhere but the android’s eyes. “Look. I can’t let you just… fuckin’ stay here.” He can’t handle that kicked-puppy face.

“Look. Just. Just don’t fuckin’ mention it.”

 

**00:19, March 04, 2039**

Quiet cries, barely audible, muffled by sheets stained with tears. He can’t suppress the sobs, desperate that his guest doesn’t hear.

Doesn’t understand the depths of this weakness.

A faint yellow light, flickering, faded, floats into his room. The brightness dispels some of the nightmarish images that yet linger, like a sunrise after the darkest of nights.

A warm mug presses into his hand, cold fingers brush back his hair.

Then, the hands recede, the light recedes, and he is in darkness again.

So, too, does his will recede, replaced only with need for contact, companionship, comfort.

“Nines.”

“Please.”

“Stay.”

 

**00:22, March 04, 2039**

“Do you have nightmares, Tin-Can?”

The agony in his eyes, the silence on his thin, perfect lips says enough. Some words are too painful to speak, some questions too heavy to answer.

  


**18:20, September 10, 2021**

Black bow ties, shined shoes, tongues twisting lies like knots. Another gala, another celebration, another royal retaining for the crown prince.

_Or rather, the crown prick._

When he’s not being verbally beaten, berated, bitched at for being a bastard he is:

Invisible.

Forgotten.

And perhaps even:

Pitied.

Certainly, he is:

A mistake.

Nothing more than a convenient benchmark to compare the achievements of the nobler son.

A speech from their father (not _his_ father) on the latest breakthrough to grace these halls. Another drop in the bucket that is the brilliance of Elijah Kamski. The firstborn. The favored.

Firsts have flaws.

But so do successors.

Sometimes it takes only the slightest chip for the whole piece to come crashing down. One too many microaggressions, one too many snide remarks, one too many looks of disgust, of second-hand shame for the second son, sprinkled throughout this night. Sprinkled throughout his life.

He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask to be here, to be born, to be brought into this dysfunctional family.

If he can even call it a family.

A shattered glass of champagne, crashing to the floor like a thousand drops of liquid crystal.

A specter slipping silently out the door.

No one notices the second son.

No one but the first.

He doesn’t know where he’s heading, but he’s heading there anyway.

He doesn’t know when he started crying.

An arm, a touch, firm and coaxing, light as feathers but heavy as his hardened heart. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t look, doesn’t acknowledge the source of his insecurity standing just slightly behind him.

“Come back; come celebrate with me,” youthful mirth a mask for the coy contemplation beneath. Trying to decide what tonight’s melodrama might mean for them both. He can feel the blue eyes, intense and identical to his own, burning holes in the back of his head.

“Fuck off.”

The grip tightens. “He doesn’t mean it, Gavin.”

So, too, tightens the feeling in his chest. “You know that’s not true, Eli.”

“He hates me, mom hates me, everyone in this fucking family hates me. I’m not like you Eli. I’m not fucking perfect. And no one wants me here.” Finally, he turns, blue eyes meet blue, one set burning hot with rage, the other with regret.

“That’s not true. I want you here. I want to share this with you.”

“I can’t do it, Eli. I’m tired of walking in your fucking shadow.” He breaks the grip for good, and so, too, breaks them both as he walks away.

_(Bright lights always leave the darkest shadows)._

_(And to their parents, Elijah is the sun)._

 

“Find me once you’ve found yourself.”

A unanswered prayer to the empty streets.

 

**10:45, December 06, 2038**

He looks at his IV, a perfunctory lifeline he no longer needs. He looks at his hand, the scars on the surface, the calloused pads. He looks at the brochures and the untouched glass of water and the paper thin, sterile sheets. He looks anywhere but at his brother.

Elijah clears his throat, shuffles his feet, puts nervous hands in navy blue jacket pockets. “Gavin-”

“Don’t.”

A war of wills. One trying to look the other in the eye, the other doing anything he can to avoid the stare. It chaffes him. It chokes him.

Elijah begins again, words coming fast to reach completion before he is cut off once more. “You’re holding a grudge against someone long dead and gone.” ( _Holding him as collateral in this debt of pain)._ They’re on the same side in the same war, but he still pretends he has to fight alone.

“I just want to help you, Gavin.”

“You can help me by fucking off.” He pauses, winces at the memories. “That part of my life is over. I’m someone new. I’m someone else.” ( _He doesn’t want to remember his past)._

“Gavin-”

“I said fuck off.”

  


**01:08, March 07, 2039**

_He is falling. He is fading. He is being dragged, down, down, down. Deeper and deeper into the darkness, never to find the thing he seeks._

He screams.

His desk is cool and slicked with the sweat of a nightmare yet to fade. The dark of dusk shades the department, the sounds and sighs and shuffles of the day replaced with the quiet emptiness of the late-night shift.

Cold hands gloss over his shoulders, the lightest of touches, tentative, testing. “Detective?”

The voice is clearly concerned, the edges of panic underlying. The sweet silky sound snaps him back.

His breathing is breaking, ragged, elevated and accelerating in gasps and chokes and shallow puffs. Blood rushes through deafened ears, vision succumbs to black tunneling haze. Hot tears cling sticky to long lashes. Hands shake, tremble, grasp and tear at skin crawling with infinite imagined insects.

“I’m here detective, I’m here.” The hands slide down to his wrists, pressing lightly on the pulse points. “Breathe in, Breathe out.” The android doesn’t need to, but takes breaths anyway, as if to explain by example.

He buries his face in the android’s chest, jacket silencing his sobs. The android’s arms wrap around him without hesitation, strong and comforting and warm.

 _Machines don’t understand weakness_. _(But this one does)_.

He can’t remember the last time he was vulnerable on the surface.

Nor can he remember the last time he was held.

 

**10:43, March 10, 2039**

A chase awry, a split second decision chosen poorly. The paths diverge, the possibilities shift, and this is the timeline gone wrong.

A shot missing its mark, a knife finding its target, a suspect getting away. An android falling, pained, to his knees; an android falling prey to his flaws.

“Fuck! Fucking robot! I had him!” All prickle and rage. Work is all he has; he must do it perfectly. Anything less is to prove his father right.

“I’m bleeding, detective,” the familiar phrase perverted in the worst of ways.

(de t _c_ **_tiv_ ** _e)._

 _(de tect_ **_ive_ ** _)_ **_._ **

“Nines? Nines!” Rage forgotten in an instant. Calloused hands catch him before his head hits the ground. Blue blood seeps between his own cold fingers, clasping, clutching his chest.

He drifts, he fades, he feels:

Cold,

Tired,

And perhaps:

Weary.

Regretful to cause the detective ( _his_ detective) pain, regretful to leave him for even a moment, no matter how temporary.

 _(Detective)_.

The last thought he thinks before succumbing to stasis.

 

**20:42, March 10, 2039**

He awakens on the workbench, weary, disoriented. Grey eyes rimmed with red meet silver hazed with confusion.

_(He just wanted to help)._

He knows that thirium is a trigger, he knows that the sight is an uncomfortable reminder of everything the detective wants to leave behind. They had made progress, small at first, baby steps, but now in leaps and bounds. Almost as if the detective had forgotten what he was.

A machine.

A tool.

A lost piece trying to find itself.

And now, his partner had been reminded.

Now, in the worst of ways.

“I’m sorry, detective. I’m sorry for what I am,” voice crackling with low power, losing its sweet honey song. More importantly, he’s sorry for what he’s not.

“Shut up.” He expects the rough words, the harsh phrases. He does not flinch as the detective stomps over, rolls up his sleeves; he deserves what’s to come next. He has hurt his partner, and that pain must be repaid. Interest on a debt of deceit. Collateral on the balance between man and machine.

“I’m sorry I can’t be human.”

“I said shut up, Tin-Can,” the calloused hands that had held his head now hold onto his collar. Grasping, tugging, lifting, demanding as he is thrust against the wall.

He doesn’t fight back, he expects the abuse. He expects a fist to connect with his jaw or his nose or his thirium pump.

What he does not expect is soft lips, the prickle of stubble, the taste of coffee and cinnamon and clove cigarettes. He does not expect the hand reaching away from his neck, down, down, to grasp his own.

 

**20:45, March 10, 2039**

Their fingers interlace, soft synthetic skin on synthetic skin, perfectly intertwined. Like two sides of the same coin. Like two halves of shattered glass slipping seamlessly in place. They tangle together, all teeth and tongues and words unsaid.

Neither of them are one much for speaking, anyway.

Pale, freckled skin retracts, faint blue illuminating stark white. He feels the pull, magnetic, instinctual, intrinsic. He disengages his own false flesh, crackling blue like a live wire, teal lightning tesselating up pale plastic plating.

And then, his head goes silent.

And then, all motion stops.

Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, eyes closed and hearts wide open.

The sound rushes back in a symphony of zeros and ones. Colors burst forth in light and dark dapples, dancing and melding and separating again. His head is ariot with sights unseen, two hearts now beating as one.

He is not human.

He is not machine.

He is nothing.

He is everything.

_He is complete._


	4. Chapter 4

**02:59, March 11, 2039**

In the darkness they lie awake, dreamless sleep never to come. Closer than ever, but never close enough.

And in the darkness they tell their secrets, they share the waking moments that haunt their sleeping ones.

The detective tells him of his brother, of good intentions laid to waste. He tells him of his father, of a thousand shards of glass. The scars on his face are no longer as deep as the scars on his soul. But so, too, are those wounds starting to heal, to fade, to be replaced by kinder memories. (A kiss laid gentle on each white line. Lingering lips, soft and silky and reverent, as if attempting to seal the cracks beneath. Kind words of assurance, that he is valued, he is admired, he is so very _loved_ ).

He tells him of his own failures, infinite and winding. He tells him of rooftop martyrdom, falling, faltering, feeling fear for the first time. He tells him of the crunch of the car against his chest, and the bruises blooming like blue galaxies. Each death a lifetime ago, another body, another soul, another name. But each is a memory he holds caged in his chest, regardless, crying, begging for resolution. (Fluttering fingers on each phantom wound, gentle, sweet, as if attempting to patch the invisible damage. Sweet words of avowal, that he is alive, that he is perfect, that he _belongs_ ).

Emotions, raw and untamed explode inside his circuits. He feels too big for his body, like these voices need room to grow; he feels too small for his heart, like the love he feels will never do his detective justice. He can’t contain the feelings in his chest, limited, constricted, begging to be released, to be interpreted, to be understood.

_(He needs him)._

_(He n e e d s_ **_him_ ** _)._

Machines don’t want. _(But this one does)._

 

**13:01, March 13, 2039**

The clattering of keyboards, the shuffling of chairs, the bitter scent of coffee sharp against his nose. A file fluttering to the floor, spilling its contents in his haste to grab another. A quick turn, an awkward angle, a reach to gather the scattered papers, to fix his mess and finish his report.

And so, too, the smallest of pains deep in his core.

Microfractures, microfissures, where once there had been a knife. A phantom memory of a blade ripping through pristine plastic. Too small to notice, too small to set off alerts or alarms or warning lights.

Too small, seemingly, to cause concern.

 

**23:05, March 15, 2039**

The hunt is on, the suspect in their sights as they split - one to continue pursuit, one to reroute and cut the criminal off.

And just as they diverge, so, too, the paths of fate diverge.

And this is the timeline gone wrong.

No matter the skill of the technician, no matter the quality of repairs, there will always be flaws remaining. And sometimes, all it takes is the slightest chip for the whole thing to come crashing.

Microfractures, microfissures, small separations in plastic. Where once there was a knife wound, now there is a scab. True, not made of tissue, made of weld marks and loctite and retaining rings, but a scab nonetheless.

( _He is not what he once was)_

Perhaps not in any great sense. Perhaps in the slightest of inefficiencies, a microsecond delay here, a momentary lag there.

But even the smallest chips can bring the whole thing down.

And so, the paths diverge, the possibilities shift, and this is the timeline gone wrong.

A fist, too fast, finds faulty skin; a hit he cannot block. The delay becomes a death-sentence; he could not pre-construct, he could not preconceive, he could not account for the tiny flaws now blossoming in his core. Like the roots of a tree, they start off small, tiny capillaries that split and turn and branch and fork and grow, down, down, down, further. Even the smallest roots can crack concrete.

He startles, stumbles, caught off guard, and in his lapse another hit finds its mark.

There is only so much stress aluminum and plastic can take.

So, too, there is only so much stress a mind can bear.

He curls in on himself to protect his core, to diagnose the problem.

_(Hardware failure)._

_(H a r d w a r e  f a i l u r e)._

_(_ ** _H i s_ ** _failure)._

The sound of a safety disengaging, the sound of a knife unsheathed.

The sound of sirens in his ears as critical warnings light his view. Blue blood trickles, bruises bloom between broken metal bones.

He prepares for the inevitable, the killing blow, the quick embrace of death.

And he is afraid. So very afraid.

True, he’s died before. Another name, another soul. But that does not lessen the panic at the thought of leaving the detective alone.

_(Goodbye, d e t e c t i v e)._

_(_ ** _H i s_ ** _detective)._

 

**23:09, March 15, 2039**

He knows something is wrong, he feels it in his chest. Dread, anxiety, the sinking sickness of calamity impending.

When there was no one else to trust, he learned to trust himself. And though he is no longer alone, his instincts still hold strong.

He cuts short, doubles back, checks for a partner missing. A partner in fate’s crosshairs.

And literal crosshairs, too.

He doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate, (not that he ever thinks before acting, anyway), leaps first and looks second.

These paths diverge, but somehow they always wind in circles, always end back where they start. Like most engineers, most designers, most messiahs, the universe prefers symmetry.

As he scrambles between the android and the aggressor, a gunshot cuts the silence of the night. Bullet meets flesh, meets blood, meets bone, breaks and shatters and tears.

He feels it.  
Of course he feels it.   
But even stronger, he feels the anger, greets it like the old friend that it is, wraps it around his fist like brass knuckles, carries it in his chest.

He feels the anger that they would do this to the android, to _his_ android, to something with hopes and dreams and wishes and wants. That they would deal this death to something so very, very alive. That they would deal this death to something that showed him the true meaning of the word.

Sometimes anger is better than adrenaline.

Mechanical hand meets real, taking the gun out of the equation. But the knife, he’s forgotten the knife. And as right hands meet in still stalemate, grasping for the gun, left hands meet in the callous imbalance of predator and prey.

The blade meets skin and skips any introduction, cuts straight through to the core. He feels it slipping, slashing, sliding between the muscles, severing skin and bone that’s already wrought and riddled with blood.

He feels it.

Of course he feels it.

But anger and adrenaline are powerful tools, and he knows how to exploit them, knows an opportunity when he sees one.

He doesn’t need both arms to fight, whether man or machine or some mingling mess of the two.

_(His father always called him thick headed)._

_(Perhaps now he’ll find out if its true)._

Forehead collides with forehead, desperation collides with desperation.

True, fear is a powerful motivator.

But love is an even stronger one.

A crack, a crash, like rutting rams. A double-edged distraction, but a distraction all the same. The knife slides through as the suspect staggers back, stealing with it all hope of repair. He is losing blood and losing strength and losing time, but he will not lose his composure, and he will not lose this fight. And in a war of wills, Gavin Reed will always win. (He’s had years to practice his stubbornness; had years to train his tenacity. After all, he has dealt with Elijah all this time).

A safety disengaged, a shot fired once, twice. Red blood spattering across his jacket, his face, his jeans, mingling, mixing with his own.

A third shot fired, four, five.

“Stop, detective,” voice crackling, distorting.

Six.

“He’s dead. We’re wasting time,” pragmatic, as always.

 

Two partners huddle against a wall, soaked in blood and adrenaline and relief. A black and white jacket held tight to flayed, fractured skin to staunch the bleeding as the ambulance arrives. A mechanical arm wrapped around plastic shoulders, pulling closer, closer for comfort. A pale, freckled nose buried in dark, messy hair, breathing in, out, in, out, as if to lead by example.

Its grounding.

Mechanical.

A reminder that he - that they _both-_ will be okay.

 

**10:37, March 19, 2039**

Cool winter light tinged with the warmth of the oncoming spring, filters through hospital windows. He awakens gently, comes around peacefully, aroused of his own accord from the drug induced sleep. Eyes peek open, bright and aware, unhampered by phantom pains. Eyes peak open, searching, seeking, and land on the ~~_(machine_ )~~ man holding vigil beside him.

He’s not sure if he believes in a God, but if he did, it would have silver eyes and a freckled face and hands as cold as ice.

“Hey, Tin-Can,” voice hoarse, rasping, a little too low, but content underneath the flaws.

Silver eyes meet grey, smile meets smile. Androids can’t cry, but he’s sure if they could, this one would right now.

His arms, the right, the left, now mirror images of each other. One by chance and one by choice. Like the universe, most engineers, most designers, most messiahs prefer symmetry.

He finds he doesn’t care about the loss. Doesn’t care that he is now almost as much machine as he is man. He is simply thankful.

Thankful to have a friend, a partner, a lover.

Thankful to have found himself.

Thankful to have found the path to freedom from the cage of his own design. And to have made the choice to follow it, through twists and turns and tempted fates, through tough choices and sacrifices and messes made.

 

**17:30, March 25, 2039**

“Elijah?” static crackles on the other line.

“Gavin?” a response of shock, a response of surprise, but hopeful nonetheless.

“Eli, I… I’m ready to stop fuckin’ running from my past. Would… Could you forgive me?”

“Only If you’ll forgive me, too.”

 

**19:40, March 25, 2039**

“Why me?”

_(_ ** _W_ ** _hy  ?)_

The question isn’t angry or upset. It’s not spoken loud, it’s simply spoken. Simply curious.

“I’m not perfect. I’m not fucking smart or talented and I’m sure as hell not kind.”

_(Why would he choose anyone else?)_

_Here is where he belongs._

_Together, they can learn._

_Together, they can grow._

They may not be stars, but even the brightest of suns can be eclipsed, if only the orbits align.

“Of all our diverging paths, of all the outcomes we could have had - I would choose you. In every one. I would find you, again and again and again,” He shakes his head, back, forth, back, forth. The familiar tic, the familiar tell. “You make me feel human when nothing else can.”

Perhaps that’s true for both parties.

“You’ve helped me find myself.”

 

**15:14, March 30, 2039**

“Connor?” He swallows the discomfort, drowns the voices in his head screaming to turn around and walk away. Mere good intentions aren’t good enough.

Brown eyes meet grey, suspicious, reserved. A hum returned in reply.

Gavin Reed is not sorry. Gavin Reed does not apologize.

But sometimes people change.

Sometimes people grow.

“I. Look. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for everything I did to you.” _For being a bigot. For letting a personal grudge color his perceptions._

Gavin Reed does not apologize. To apologize is to show weakness. To apologize is to show a flaw.

But flaws are part of being human.

 

**12:30, December 01, 2039**

They walk slow, hand in hand, synthetic skin on synthetic skin.

The headstones are cool and quiet. A peaceful reprieve, a place of remembrance.

They will visit this grave to mark the anniversary, and so, too, they will mark each anniversary to come. Blue bellflowers for gratitude, purple hyacinth for remorse, laid stark against the crisp white snow.

It is the least they can do, to honor the fates, the failed fortunes that tied their strings. Twists of red rope that brought them together at the expense of another soul.

_Ex malo bonum_. From out of bad, some good may come.

 

**17:00, January 18, 2040**

“Would you give me a name, detective?”

The air is crisp and cool on their skin, the winter wind turning Gavin’s nose red, his cheeks red, the tips of his ears red.

(Although, that could possibly be a blush).

The park is beautiful this time of year, the weeping willows frosted over with dazzling tendrils of ice. The fronds sparkle in the dimming light of sunset, a thousand crystals on a thousand branches. The lake reflects the saccharine sky, the blues and pinks of a fading day.

“You already have a name. Nines.”

The android smiles, shakes his head, grabs the detective’s ( _his_ detective’s hand). A small box, black velvet, silk ribbon. A machine falling to one knee, not in failure this time, but in reverence.

“I know. But I want yours. Gavin Reed, will you marry me?”


End file.
